


Bulletproof

by Trams



Series: immortalis [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Buried Alive, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Supernatural Elements, in case it's not clear i don't know what to tag this as, sort of he was dead when he was buried, sort of i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 23:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9792824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trams/pseuds/Trams
Summary: It's not the first time Billy's had to dig his way out of a grave





	

**Author's Note:**

> *Finally manages to write something despite depression. Spends two hours writing, completely consumed by this idea and forgetting the rest of the world. Finishes and looks at it.*  
> What the hell did I just write?
> 
> So, this happened. I was so sure that this fandom would be another "I only want to read fic, I don't wanna write any"-fandom. I thought I didn't even have any stories I wanted to tell. Well, apparently I was wrong. I had this idea? Whatever this is... I'm still surprised by this. Oh well.
> 
> Huge huge thanks to my friend Macca for beta reading this despite having never watched the movie.

He dies with Goody's name on his lips – and comes back to life exhaling the name, before gasping for breath, precious little air in the oppressing darkness all around him. He thrashes around in the small, confining space he's in, but only for a moment, until full awareness returns. He manages to force himself to breathe slower, closing his eyes, and chasing away the panic before it can take hold of his heart.

He takes another breath, steadier now.

The more violent a death, the longer it takes to come back from wherever it is he goes – although he can never remember that part. However, as more time passes, the chance that he is buried before he once again can draw breath into his lungs becomes more likely. This time is no different, and it isn't the first time he's dug his way out of a grave. There was even one time, before Goody entered his life, when a particularly angry mob of people thought the best way of punishing him for showing them up at the quick draw competition, had been to bury him alive in the desert. If he had enjoyed taking his revenge on them after climbing out of that grave –  _ well, who could blame him? _

He spares a thought to be thankful for being buried with his knives, as he uses one to pry apart the wooden slats of the casket lid, loose dirt falling on his chest, and in his face. There's the slightest hint of urgency at the back of his mind, not enough to make his heart beat faster from stress, but enough for him to silently curse how caskets seem to be built sturdier, making them harder to break out of.  He doesn't have the time to go slow, not if he wants to break out before Goody wakes up in a grave of his own. He finally breaks through the casket and starts to dig properly. His eyes closed, and taking shallow breaths through his nose. It's easy to die again when trying to dig out of a grave, he has choked to death on dirt in his mouth and throat, has had his chest cave in from being pinned down by the heavy weight over him. All uncomfortable ways to go, even if he will come back again soon enough. He doesn't have the time for that this time though.

Eventually he can push his hand up through the dirt – it falls into his eyes, nose and mouth, and he's spitting as he rises up from his grave. Sitting up, he shakes his head, dust and dirt falling from his hair, and he scrubs a hand over his face. He blinks a few times, letting his eyes get used to the light. Fortunately, it appears to be dusk with the sun starting to set, so it isn't painfully bright – something he's grateful for. He dug his way out of a grave in bright midday sun once, and almost blinded himself.

He’s fairly sure he’s put more people in graves than times he’s been buried, but there’s been plenty of graves he’s escaped from, he reflects. Though fewer in the last ten years, ever since Goody entered his life. Goody is very good at deflecting situations which may otherwise escalate into full blown shootouts. But not even Goody’s name, or his charm and silver tongue, can always soothe the bruised egos of white men. A lot of the time they come out of whatever fight with both of their lives intact, but sometimes they both end up buried. Yet other times, Goody or Billy – Goody more often than Billy – will whisk away the other one to a place of solitude to peacefully come back to the world of the living, without the unpleasantness of waking up in complete darkness. Billy remembers every time, blinking his eyes open to see Goody fretting nearby, but trying to pretend he isn’t. Thinking of Goody, he smiles.

Able to see once again – and missing his hat – he looks to his side, and sees the cross bearing Goody's name. At least they got the man's name right, and managed to fit the whole thing – with Goody’s flask hanging from it. Crawling out of his hole, he pockets the flask, noting with a frown of disappointment how it is empty, before pulling the cross from the ground and, using it, starts to dig.

It doesn’t seem to matter that they both die. Billy is always the first one breathing again, and Goodnight always comes back to him – always.

Reaching the casket, he pushes away some more of the earth before he breaks through the wooden slats, revealing first Goody's chest, the bullet holes in his clothes still visible but the skin underneath pale and unmarked. Billy pulls away the rest of the broken slats to finally lay his eyes on Goody's face again, his heart skipping a beat. Goody's face is pale and peaceful, at rest in a way it never looks when he is simply asleep.

It was quite unlikely the two of them meeting, and striking up a partnership. Billy had never met someone before, or since, who was the same as him. Not even his own family. When they had been taken from him, they had never come back. Goody, meanwhile, apparently came from a family of immortals. He had told Billy a story once, of his father having choked on a piece of food, died, and come back to life before he had even fallen to the floor. Billy had reason to suspect that Goody had exaggerated the story somewhat, but it had also been the only time Goody had mentioned anything to suggest the rest of his family were like him. But that was the thing, Billy didn't really know what he was – what either of them were. He didn't spend much time thinking about it though, not like Goody, who thought of it as a curse.

Goody had gone to war, had seen death up close and known it was never going to happen to him, that unlike all the people around him, death would never touch him permanently. It had affected him deeply – this, Billy knows – Goody knew that he had an unfair advantage, that every life he took would be gone forever, while Goody's involvement carried none of the same stakes. He wasn't putting his life on the line, only taking the lives of others.

“Oh, Goody,” Billy murmurs, placing a hand on the other man's cheek.

Billy never thought of his immortality as a curse, only as a fact of life. While Goody would rant and rave about the unfairness of the world, Billy had accepted it all as a fact and done the best he could with what he had.

Goody comes back slowly, a frown creasing his forehead, before he sucks in a shuddering breath, and opening blue eyes that look more haunted with every time this happens, his face drawn from a pain that is not physical. Billy doesn't smile, but he knows there is a softness to his eyes as he catches Goody's eyes.

“Billy?” Goody asks, his voice croaking, his body trembling.

“I'm here,” Billy says, wishing there was something in the flask, knowing that Goody could use a drink right about now. The man doesn't handle coming back to life as easily as Billy. The guilt the man carries with him, at being allowed to live on, weighing extra heavy on him whenever he opens his eyes again.

Goody reaches up, makes a grab for Billy’s shirt, but unsteady fingers can’t seem to curl around the fabric. Billy lifts his own hand, puts it on the back of Goody’s hand, and pushes Goody’s palm to his chest, letting him feel Billy’s heart beating out a steady rhythm. With his hand on Goody’s he leans back a little, pulling Goody with him so that he can sit.

After a moment of silence, with Goody’s hand still trembling underneath Billy’s, and the other man making no move to get up, Billy decides to just help him up and out of the grave. Moving to crouch beside Goody, he puts one hand on Goody’s arm, the other on Goody’s back, and lifts him. Once Goody’s out of the hole, he crawls a few feet away and flops down on his back, breathing heavily, and staring up at the darkening sky.

Billy hopes Goody doesn't look at the other crosses, but that doesn't seem likely. To distract him, he crawls over to Goody, pulls out the cigarettes from his pocket – luckily they had made it – and lights one. He sits and takes a deep drag, closing his eyes. He stays silent, Goody isn't often quiet, and Billy will let him be the one to decide when to break the silence.

He opens his eyes and sees Goody holding up a hand. Billy can't help the little quirk of the corner of his mouth. Taking another drag and slowly blowing out the smoke, he hands the cigarette to Goody's outstretched and trembling hand.

Billy stretches out on his back, lying close enough that their arms are pressed together, and they smoke in silence, sharing the cigarette until it is a small burnt out stub, and Goody has stopped trembling.

“You think we won?” Goody asks. Billy shrugs, arm jostling Goody's. They aren't likely to find out if they did – can't exactly walk back into Rose Creek – but considering there are only two more crosses, it would imply that at least three of the others survived, so perhaps they did win. He realizes he feels quite happy imagining that they did win.

“Wasn't sure we'd come back this time,” Goody says.

Billy snorts, even though a part of him tries to ignore the hint of wistfulness in Goody's voice. Goody has never been afraid of dying, he would welcome death with open arms if he thought it would last. No, he was afraid of coming back to life each time. It was why Billy had to be there every time Goody came back, to help him, to ground him in reality and not let the heavy weight of guilt wash over Goody alone.

“I knew we would,” Billy says.

“What made you so sure?” Goody asks.

“You came back,” Billy says. He’d had a moment of doubt, back in Rose Creek when Goody left, he could admit that to himself. “You always come back,” he continues. The  _ 'to me' _ isn't voiced, but he's sure Goody can hear it anyway. He doesn't even have to see Goody's face to know that Goody is smiling that small pleased smile he has sometimes. The same one he wears when he looks at Billy after he's said something witty, or in the early mornings, just as Billy is waking up, and he finds Goody looking at him, eyes soft and that small smile on his lips.

They lie there for a little while longer, lighting another cigarette. Billy lies silent, enjoying the cadence of Goody's voice as he talks about everything except Rose Creek, and anything besides their immortality. Goody had asked once, if Billy thought he would ever truly die. Billy hadn't had an answer then, and he surely doesn’t have an answer now. He can't explain what he is, just that at some point he stopped aging, and that so far he has come back to life from everything that has killed him. He also knows in his heart that if he does die permanently, Goody will follow him, and that is all he needs to know. It's a bit selfish, he knows, but there has been so little in his life that has truly been his, that he can't help be a little bit selfish in holding on to Goody's heart.

Eventually, with the last of the sunlight almost gone, they get to their feet. Billy turns to the remaining crosses, lifts his fingers to the brim of a hat he isn't wearing, and pretends to tip it in in honor of their fallen comrades.

He turns and sees Goody do the same, before they start walking away from their graves, and away from Rose Creek.

“I could sneak into town and steal a horse without anyone seeing me,” Billy points out. He could. He's no thief, nor does he have the skill to be quite as invisible and unobtrusive as Red Harvest had been – Billy had been genuinely impressed with the kids skills – but he knows how to be sneaky. Besides, he wouldn't have to walk down the main street to find any of the surviving horses.

“It wouldn't be worth it if they do catch sight of you,” Goody says. “Wouldn't want one of the poor townspeople to suffer a heart attack from seeing a dead man walking around.”

Billy concedes his point with a nod.

It is going to be a long walk, but he is glad he is making it with Goody by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> I am impressed with the quality of fic is in this fandom, I love it, but it also makes me anxious about posting this.
> 
> (Two days after writing the first draft of this I watched byung-hun's movie a bittersweet life, where he's buried alive and climbs out of that grave. And this coincidence has fucked me up)


End file.
